


three times

by novoaa1



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: F/F, Hurt Wanda Maximoff, Natasha Romanov Has Issues, POV Wanda Maximoff, Wanda Maximoff Feels, Wanda Maximoff Needs a Hug, but natasha sucks at love cause duh its natasha, but wandas adorable and lovestruck and she wears nat down eventually, cause shes adorable, like seriously, they're in love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-07
Updated: 2019-07-07
Packaged: 2020-06-23 22:23:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,312
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19710664
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/novoaa1/pseuds/novoaa1
Summary: It was strange, the first time."I love you," Wanda had told her, genuine and sincere andrawin the early light of morning, the sheets a mess around their naked bodies, her heart thumping hard in her chest.Natasha’s gorgeous features had frozen for a split second in the amber rays of sunlight, and damn it, but Wanda hadn’t the slightest clue what she’d been thinking."No, you don’t," she'd said eventually, her words careful and concise, something inexplicably sad yet strong in her jade-green irises.(Or: Two times Wanda tells Natasha she loves her, and the one time Natasha says it back.)





	three times

**Author's Note:**

> it's a cliché, i know alright i knoW
> 
> but uh it wouldn't leave me alone, and i will probably come back to edit it later

It was strange, the first time. 

“I love you,” Wanda had told her, genuine and sincere and _raw_ in the early light of morning, the sheets a mess around their naked bodies, her heart thumping hard in her chest. 

Natasha’s gorgeous features had frozen for a split second in the amber rays of sunlight, and damn it, but Wanda hadn’t the slightest clue what she’d been thinking. 

“No, you don’t,” she'd said eventually, her words careful and concise, something inexplicably sad yet strong apparent in her jade-green irises. 

Wanda had frowned, furrowing a brow even as uneasiness rose in her chest. “Yes, I do.”

Natasha had sighed at that, as if she were an exhausted schoolteacher having to explain yet again to a stubborn first-grader that 2 + 2 does indeed equate to 4. “No, Wanda, you don’t.” With that, she’d stood from the bed, entirely unashamed in her (glorious) nudity, already pulling on her discarded black lacy panties from the night before and a Metallica graphic T-shirt (forgoing the bra entirely) without a single glance spared for Wanda, who sat frozen and gawking after her upon the bed, speechless. 

It’d felt like a punch to the gut as she watched her leave: hurtful, unexpected, breath-taking for all the wrong reasons.

And still, she wanted her. 

Still, she loved her. 

— — 

She’s drunk the next time she says it. 

It’s “Girls’ Night” at the Tower—Pepper, Jane, Darcy, Maria, Helen… Natasha. 

They’re in one of the common areas (Pepper had threatened to cut Tony’s balls off if even one of the boys dared to show their face tonight), drinking wine and hard liquor and playing an abundance of American drinking games that they all have to explain in great detail to Wanda before starting. 

They drink and they laugh and they share things—happy things, and things that aren’t so happy; but, it doesn’t matter, because they’re drunk. Drunk enough that it doesn’t make much of a difference to talk about the things that made them laugh and cry and scream—drunk enough that someone says “Never have I ever killed someone” on their dozenth round of ‘Never Have I Ever,’ and without batting an eyelid, everyone drinks.

It’s about 3:00am when everyone starts nodding off—Pepper is snoring loudly into the cushions, Darcy and Jane are cuddled up unconscious together on the carpeted floor, Helen is sprawled face-down across the coffee table in what looks to be an overtly uncomfortable position (but she’s drooling lightly onto the wood, muted snores escaping her on every exhale, so for her, it must be working somehow), and Maria had long since left a couple hours back, grumbling petulantly under her breath about a 6:00am meeting tomorrow morning at S.H.I.E.L.D.

Wanda isn’t much better than the rest of them (sans Maria), to be perfectly honest—her eyelids growing heavy, her balance on the barstool wavering, the grip around her glass tumbler weakening with every passing moment. 

She doesn’t notice she’s falling until it’s much too late, doesn’t feel the panic in her brain until she’s feet from a head-on collision with the polished ground, doesn’t—

Suddenly, there’s warmth surrounding her, strong arms holding her steady, shoulder-length copper-red curls tickling her nose— _Natasha_ , she realizes belatedly. Of _course_ it’s Natasha. 

Natasha takes her to bed that night, her movements gentle and soft as she deposits Wanda carefully onto her mattress, pulling the sheets up around her in a way that makes her _ache_ for Sokovia, for the long-dead mother who used to do just that on every bitterly cold night, a warm smile on her aged features that Wanda yearns to see again. 

“I love you, Natasha,” she murmurs then, her head spinning, her chest burning pleasantly from the alcohol even as she suffers painfully with the magnitude of _missing_ , of wanting her mother back and knowing she can’t have her. It threatens to swallow her whole—the agony, the _hurt_.

_But maybe it won’t_ , she thinks, _so long as Natasha is here. Maybe I don’t have to be scared anymore._

Natasha doesn’t say it back, but she doesn’t freeze this time, either—though, Wanda fears that that might just be her imagination. Or the intoxication. Or both. 

Either way, she’s certain she’s not imagining things when Natasha leans in close, when she presses her warm full lips against Wanda’s forehead, when she whispers, “Sweet dreams, красотка” in that silky-smooth voice of hers and Wanda fears she might spontaneously combust with how much she _feels_ for Natasha in that moment.

Natasha stays with her for a little while, then—stroking her hair and humming a melody Wanda can’t quite place until she falls asleep, sinking easily into soothing ministrations and the warmth of Natasha’s delicate touch. Wanda doesn’t ache for her mother that night. (Wanda doesn’t ache at all.)

She has one last thought before the darkness swallows her whole, before she surrenders to the gentle coaxing of sleep—that she loves Natasha. More than anything. 

(And this, too: that maybe, just maybe, Natasha might love her back.)

— — 

She’s bleeding out the next time it happens, gunfire raging all around, the darkness pulling at her in an entirely new way—but it’s much like sleep, to tell the truth. 

It’s colder, and scarier—but more final, somehow. Permanent, like it’s not going to leave. (Wanda always longed desperately for something like that.)

The burning pain in her stomach is ebbing with every moment she draws near, a strange static-y feeling overtaking her senses until she’s there, at the precipice of blessed rest, at the edge of sleeping forever—she can almost _see_ Pietro’s widely grinning face, the softness in her mother’s, their presences seeming to reach for her like a blanket of warmth… like peace, at last.

But then, Natasha is there, dragging her back from that penultimate euphoria, her soot-streaked face popping into view as Wanda’s eyelids flutter, her consciousness oscillating treacherously between reality and somewhere better, somewhere _safer_.

She wants to flee, wants to let herself fade, wants to _surrender_ —but, Natasha is _there_ , begging Wanda brokenly not to go, kissing the damp skin of her forehead and watching her with glossy red-rimmed eyes, like she’s terrified that if she takes her eyes off Wanda for even the briefest of seconds, she might leave. 

(Wanda thinks Natasha might be a little bit psychic.)

Wanda takes a long moment to be unsure then, her boldness wavering as the remembrance of Pietro and her mother pull at her like all-powerful magnets, as something unobtrusively rooted well within her very core yearns to answer their call—but, deep down, she’s already made her decision; what’s more, she knows it. 

She feels herself walking away from the only family she’s ever known before she can truly register what’s happening, feels herself returning to the agony that wracks her bleeding torso and the gunfire that only worsens the unbearable ache in her skull and the sweat-and-dirt-covered face of a red-haired angel with mesmerizing green eyes that calls to her from above like the warmest invitation… like _home_. 

“I love you, Natasha,” she chokes out, her words hoarse and quiet—but Natasha hears her anyways, the woman finally letting tears fall as she bites her lower lip _hard_ , hard enough that Wanda worries it might bleed. 

“I love you, too, Wanda,” she utters softly as another tear traces her soot-dotted cheek, and the words are like redeeming nectar to Wanda’s ears, like the kind of salvation her mother used to tell her about whilst she read Wanda the Bible every night, like the most unadulterated sense of belonging and sustenance and _home_ wrapped in one. 

Bullets rage, and her wound throbs, and nothing is okay but somehow it’s _more_ than okay, because Wanda loves Natasha. With everything she has. 

(And Natasha loves Wanda right back.)

— —

**Author's Note:**

> красотка | _krasotka_ | beautiful girl
> 
> comments n feedback are awesome:) (my [tumblr](https://psyches.co.vu/))


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